


Spa Day

by BBPlaid



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy IX
Genre: 2020, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, COVID19, Docking, Dragon Murder, Drama, Foreskin Play, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Nudism, Oviposition, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Seymour Guado is just here to be bullied, Spa Treatments, ambush hair braiding, being an asshole in public, explosive semen, lewd actions, poor clothing decisions, seductive walking, social distancing, stretchmarks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27501292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBPlaid/pseuds/BBPlaid
Summary: Amidst the Covid19 pandemic, Sephiroth goes to a spa for some R&R. (Feat. Kuja from FFIX who foots the bill.)
Relationships: Sephiroth/Cloud Strife
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Spa Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by drugs, but not influenced by them.
> 
> I wrote this for my dad who claimed 2020 couldn't get any worse.

“Hello, Cloud,” Sephiroth said huskily. He sounded like he was reading lines while being held at gunpoint; to Cloud, who hadn’t heard anybody’s voice in anything other than a low-quality ZOOM call in over two months, it was pure chocolate.

However, as sexy as Sexiroth sounded, he _looked_ even more attractive. Unlike Cloud, who had completely forgone most non-crucial attempts at personal hygiene after Day Three of Quarantine, Sephiroth radiated spa-day energy. He clearly spent most of his time cooped up moisturizing his skin and deep-conditioning his hair. Cloud could smell the coconut oil ten feet away and _damn._ It did wonders. Sure, the dishonorably-discharged war vet looked inhumanly attractive _before_ COVID, but now his hair looked ultra-silky and his skin looked super soft and smooth and probably felt a lot like velvet and aftershave.

Cloud blinked. It had been weeks since he’d truly interacted with someone IRL—grocery workers didn’t count—and he couldn’t remember how conversations were supposed to go. He had a vague feeling standing in a WalMarket parking lot in a turtle-neck sweater and wolf-patterned pajama bottoms and _staring_ wasn’t the correct way to socialize. Then again, Cloud was never a master, so this might be normal. Who knew? Zack probably did. Would have. Known, that is. How to socialize. Zack….

No! Now wasn’t the time to think about Zack! Sephiroth was the one he should be focusing on right now!

_Goddess_. Cloud had spent way too much time alone lately.

Sephiroth was willing to change that. The silver-haired fox held out his hand invitingly. “Come here, Cloud.”

“Can’t. We’re supposed to maintain six feet of distance in public.” The blonde shook his head, getting dandruff all over his shoulders. “WRO rules, not mine.”

For a second, Sephiroth’s eternal grin faltered. Then it returned, twice as manic and deranged as ever. His eyes did that spooky serial-killer thing where the pupils grew and contracted rapidly. “Are you implying I’m diseased? A being as perfect as myself is incapable of contracting illness.”

“You could be a carrier. Not risking it.”

“Cloud.” Sephiroth didn’t whine his name, but he said it in the flattest monotone that may as well have been a whine.

Cloud stared at him blankly, blue hues failing to feel compassion for the man who burnt his hometown.

The former Demon of Wutai, current homeless man with a magical skincare routine, exhaled condescendingly before his creepy dead-eyed grin appeared more amped up than ever before.

“If distance is the issue, my blade,” Sephiroth’s infamous Muskamune appeared in his left hand [AN: YES, SEPHY IS LEFT HANDED1!!! Just like my dad!! *squeals and drowns in her own vaginal excrements from fangirling over FF villains too hard*] in a wisp of dark, spo0ky smoke. The silver-haired hottie twisted his wrist so that the sharp part of the sword reflected the light into his relish colored eyes provocatively.

“My blade,” Sephiroth continued, “Is six feet long. The hilt is an additional foot long. I could penetrate you without breaking social distancing regulations.”

Cloud looked at the sword and back to the douchebag holding it.

He wasn’t that desperate.

He wasn’t desperate enough to fuck a sword…

_Except he kinda was._

God, it had been _way_ too long since he’d witnessed Tifa’s ungodly breast-physics in person and gotten thoroughly turned-off; his cute little gay booty had nothing better to do but think about homosexual intercourse and politics during quarantine. Cloud was, for lack of better phrasing, simultaneously depressed about the upcoming presidential election and _incredibly_ horny.

While Cloud was salivating over the concept of sex, Sephiroth proceeded to remove his tight, leather pants that gripped his gorgeously sculpted ass like a new driver on a steering wheel. He shredded them down the middle with his overly-long sword, before tying the hilt of said sword to his overly-long phallus with a strand of overly-long hair.

The fact that Sephiroth didn’t wait for his potential partner’s verbal consent before unboxing himself somehow reminded Cloud of the social implications of the upcoming presidential election, instantly converting all of his boner fluid into depressichino. No matter how touch-starved quarantine had left him, Cloud couldn’t get pegged under these conditions.

“Go fuck yourself,” Cloud said and walked away.

And that’s exactly what Sephiroth did.

He fucked himself.

But not in the traditional sense where one masturbates to the brink of hospitalization; Sephiroth, being part alien, part undead science project with the ability to shape his body to his own choosing, rearranged his internal organs and gave himself a boipussy. The boipussy was exactly like a woman’s vagina, except Sephiroth’s tremendous ballsack constantly slapped it when he walked. That made it masculine.

‘Boipussy’ is probably the incorrect term. ‘Boipussy’ makes it sound like Sephiroth was some crossdressing femme boi on Tiktok. That was not the case; Sephiroth wouldn’t be caught dead lip-syncing to Avril Lavine (or whatever kids listen to these days.) Sephiroth’s pretty pink princess was constantly drenched in excess testosterone that leaked from the base of his cock. It wasn’t a boipussy. It was a _mangina._

Sephiroth turned his penis into a giant tentacle and fucked his mangina until it felt good. This took a while, because, as a man, it was near impossible for him to find the clitoris. The clitoris wasn’t even hidden, yet, for some reason, Sexiroth kept missing. He found it eventually. After filling his dudeterus with fifty-seven ejaculations’ worth of his stinky green mako-tainted semen, the silver-haired fox finally obtained the infamous female orgasm.

That’s how Sephiroth got himself mpregnant with triplets.

Seymour Guado was a naughty boy who pretended to pray but, in actuality, really didn’t. Instead, he, a bloody heathen, was chosen by Sin.

‘Sin’ both referring to the Seven Deadlys and this giant, ugly-ass sea creature that went around moaning and killing people.

Hatsune Seymour saw that thing and went ‘yeah, I want to be that when I grow up.’

Spoiler alert: he never did.

Seymour grew up to be an incredibly unhinged adult with poor fashion sense, stupid hair and a holier-than-thou attitude he should probably keep to himself.

I won’t bore you with the details, because literally nobody reads a fanfic with Sephiroth and Kuja in the tags for Seymour _effing_ Guado, aka the only main Final Fantasy villain awful enough not to make it into _Dissidia._ He’s a terrible character, both in writing and in visual design, and a sex scene with him would be the opposite of hot. I tried to write it numerous times. My brain just ‘noped’ on me and I wound up taking a dump and crying myself to sleep instead.

Long story short, Seymour Guado fucked a sea monster. It had a large, throbbing, mold-tainted moby dick dusted in algae from the ocean. I’m describing century-old Demon of the Deep dong solely because that’s the only aspect of this unholy union that could even potentially be viewed as somewhat arousing. Seaweed Guacamole impaled himself on a crustation cock longer than a list of his character flaws because a suicidal teenage girl refused to marry him.

Lately, more Sinspawn than usual run amok (for those unfamiliar, the enemies in FFX are called Sinspawn). That’s because Seymour fucking Guado periodically fucks Chuthulu, fertilizes butt-babies, and shits monsters out his ass.

One pleasant afternoon in Spira, a thoroughly sexed and bloated Semen Guido decided to visit a nearby spa…

He was the monstrous Demon of Wutai, the legendary Silver General who reigned terror on the battlefield with his inhuman skill. He’d been feared by friend and foe alike.

Sephiroth smiles fondly at the memory.

Oh, if only those who looked up to him with awe and horror could see him _now_.

Once revered for his godlike speed, the mighty Sephiroth lay on the floor of a cave, so pregnant he can barely move. He’s grown too large for his regular skin-tight pants, and he’s been forced to accommodate for his pregnancy by wearing no pants at all. (He still wears his leather coat. It’s like a security blanket at this point. Sue him.) Thankfully, he doesn’t _need_ to move or wear pants; he has Cloud to provide for him.

Or he _would_ if Cloud would answer his damn phone.

One of the triplets has been kicking his prostate all afternoon, and Cloud left to go ‘find himself’ again.

That could translate to anywhere between a two hour and two week motorcycle ride.

It’s been three days.

After fucking himself and subsequently knocking himself up, Sephiroth sought out Cloud a second time. Cloud, due to immense loneliness, finally agreed to a temporary truce and dalliance on two conditions: Sephiroth wouldn’t cause Meteor until the pandemic blew over, and he’d self-isolate for two weeks prior to them hooking up.

Pretty soon, Cloud stopped paying rent because his stimulus check never arrived thanks to the postal service becoming incompetent to forward some political agenda. His landlord was the omega of assholes and refused to take Cloud’s situation into consideration and kicked him out.

That’s how Sephiroth and Cloud wound up sharing a cave together. It’s not comfortable, but there’s plenty of Mako to smoke, and they have plenty of blankets and sex toys that Sephiroth stole from Honey Inn before his belly got too big to easily navigate a six-foot-sword around.

Cloud still isn’t picking up.

The triplet kicked Sephiroth’s prostate again, this time much harder, and the ex-military man growls in pleasure. His boner tentatively pokes at the bottom of his baby bump, and, fuck it.

Momma Sephiroth needs some release.

He un-vanishes Masumune and sticks the well-worn hilt into his anus. Crab-walking with a sword up his ass, he leaves the cave and wonders out into the surrounding wasteland until he stumbles upon a local den of dragons.

With a smirk, Sephithot thrusts his hips and culls the entire hoard within minutes. His iconic sword swings into the air before slapping down onto his pleasure spot before he tightens his arse hole in order to down another enemy. The baby kicks in unison, and, by the time all 222 dragons are felled, they’ve gotten a sort of rhythm.

Hit. Swing. Hit. Swing.

Jenova, it feels so _good._

The former war hero allows himself to ejaculate in a forest covered in dragon blood as his genetically enhanced hellspawn brutalizes his powerless prostate. His mighty sperm skyrockets four-point-sixty-nine miles into the air and hails down upon both the pregnant man and the dragon corpses that surround him. The high radiation in his semen causes the dead dragons to immediately disintegrate as it makes contact with their fallen forms.

The dead dragons do not enter the lifestream. They do not collect $200. They evaporate into mist and idk move on to haunt the planet in FF9 or something.

It’s been three days since Cloud left, and three days since Sephiroth was properly milked. His slightly swollen teats squirt his green Mako Milk all over his belly. The droplets that slide off his smooth, flawless skin burn holes into the surrounding shrubbery due to high acidity. That, and the misty dragons causes a forest fire.

Out of the surrounding flames, a coupon drifts into the war machine’s line of enhanced vision. It reads ‘Full Spa Treatment: 50% Off!’

Sephiroth rubs his stomach and wonders idly if this is what having a family feels like.

Every eye in Treno seemed to find it’s way to Kuja’s stomach.

He couldn’t exactly blame them.

The outfit he was wearing was intentional. The slutty mage had gone to the best tailor in town and demanded the literal _most._

<FLASHBACK>

“Give me the flashiest, most over-the-top apparel that screams ‘abundance’ as well as impropriety,” Kuja demanded, flipping locks of his lush, silver mane over one shoulder as he slid a bag of coins onto the counter.

<FLASHBACK /end>

It wasn’t an easy task, but the tailor delivered.

Kuja’s golden waist coat stopped right beneath his chest, leaving an expanse of bare skin all the way down to his hips where an assortment of belts held up the tail-end of a tailcoat. Rather than pants, Kuja’s crotch was clad in a codpiece and his pink thigh-high stockings left nothing of his legs to imagination. The dress shoes he wore were padded with the skin of some endangered species, and every inch of fabric was of top-quality.

This outfit was both a tribute and a mockery of nobility. Kuja felt socially obligated to permit both the wealthy and the peasantry to gaze upon his form, hence why he was walking on the streets like a _commoner_ in the first place.

Even decked entirely in vibrant pink, golds and purples, his attire somehow wasn’t the most captivating aspect of his appearance; it caught people’s attention, but it wasn’t what _kept_ it.

See, Kuja was, by all appearances, _incredibly_ pregnant.

(In truth, Kuja wasn’t pregnant. He was simply stuffed with Black Mage eggs, _plural_ —there were six of them-- which is quite different than being pregnant with child. Eggs don’t kick, for one thing. For another, they grow far more quickly and pop out after two weeks, as opposed to nine months. They’re bigger than babies, but require less womb juice since the eggs themselves come packed with yolk for the young to grow in. Instead of being created from the union of sperm and ovaries like a fetus, Black Mage eggs come into being when a genius sorcerer—i.e. Kuja—stuffs a little magic, some dead soul Mist and half a protein shake into his cooter because Daddy Issues. )

His belly was so grossly gravid that it had him feeling lopsided. He only had to travel a block and a half from his manor to the local spa, but, in his current state, it took Herculean strength. Every step he took was a battle against gravity, where losing resulted in him toppling, stomach first, into the cobblestone. Kuja couldn’t see his legs.

Were it not for generous use of magic, the mage would be practically immobile. Even _with_ a carefully-aimed Float spell removing the weight of his stomach, walking was an exercise in balance. Carrying six eggs the size of a forearm tends to do that to a man.

The fact that he, a man—or, rather, an intersex genome who _identified_ as male, looked pregnant wasn’t what made people triple-take; to those unfamiliar with the particular brand of pretty boys Japan whips up, Kuja presented entirely female. No, it was the sheer _girth_ of him that caught folks off guard.

In the perpetual darkness of Treno, Kuja’s stomach was a pale, gorged globe, reflecting the streetlights like a small moon. In stark contrast to his lean frame, his belly was painfully swollen, so impossibly full. It was practically oblong, jutting out of his midsection like it was molded to the rest of him as a rough afterthought. His well-oiled skin was stretched to its limits, angry purple lines littering the massive mound as his thin, twinkish body struggled to contain such a heavy burden.

Ridding himself of the stretchmarks would be easy. It would require no more than a single healing spell. Kuja could do it in half a second, if he desired.

He didn’t.

Kuja _liked_ having stretchmarks. They were a constant reminder of how much he’d forced himself to grow in such a short amount of time. If he closed his eyes and focused, he could feel the dull burn as his taut skin strained against his stomach with each inhale. It was almost like receiving a spanking, which is the closest he’d come to genuine contact with another person.

Plus, the coloration was _fabulous._

The dark purple contrasted wonderfully with his porcelain pale skin. He matched it with all his accessories, and it would be such a _shame_ to heal the irritated stretchmarks and erase all the effort that went into dying the fabric of his ascot and frills the identical shade.

With all the eager eyes gawking at him, Kuja knew at least _someone_ had noticed and appreciated his flawless color coordination.

Or, perhaps, their eyes had gravitated to his most, _ah,_ prominent feature.

Like a cherry on top of a generous six-scoop sundae, Kuja’s bellybutton was so distended that it bordered on obscene. It looked like a third nipple sitting atop the monstrous mound that was his stomach. Kuja was too far large to wrap his arms around himself to touch it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel it. He intentionally ran into the walls of his manor belly-first, which felt _fantastic_ on his swollen and erect navel.

He shouldn’t have walked. He should have teleported, or taken a carriage or _any_ form of transportation other than his own two legs, especially when he was only a day away from laying.

But it was worth it.

As he passed, peasantry of Treno looked upon him like some sort of god. Never had they seen so much skin, and never so much in one place. Their mouths opened in silent worship, their eyes widened in reverence and Kuja positively _preened_.

Kuja was so busy basking in the attention he’d never receive from his father that he didn’t notice the hands appearing from stage left…

SCENE II

_KUJA, a blue-eyed, silver haired, heavily eggpregnant male of girlish build and manlet height, is pulled into a dark, damp alley by THUG ONE. THUGs TWO and THREE hover menacingly._

_THUG ONE pushes KUJA against the brick wall while his cronies surround him on either side._

**THUG ONE:** You picked the wrong part of town to be showing so much skin, girlie.

_THUG TWO begins rubbing KUJA’s stomach aggressively; THUG THREE joins him._

**THUG TWO:** Look at the size of this thing! Carryin’ an airship in here?

**THUG THREE:** More like the whole damn fleet!

_KUJA looks between all three men haughtily._

**KUJA:** Do you think yourselves worthy of touching me—?

**THUG ONE:** Lookie here, Miss. You came to the wrong side of town to be lugging around so much belly. Let me an’ the boys give you a hand with that.

_THUGS TWO AND THREE begin aggressively braiding KUJA’s hair while THUG ONE suckles on KUJA’s third teat like a cow drinking from a hamster water bottle._

Kuja has never had a grown man slurping his belly button before. He takes out his cellphone and starts filming for OnlyFans.

Yeah, that’s right.

Kuja has an OnlyFans account specifically to piss off his daddy.

Ha.

Take that, Garland.

Sephiroth has never been to a spa before. They aren’t normally his cup of tea.

However, he’s homeless and he has a coupon and a giant sword, so a spa seems like the perfect place to recline-and-ditch while waiting for Cloud to return from his Journey to Find Himself.

Dressed in the blood of dragons, Sephiroth enters the establishment. He isn't wearing a mask because he doesn't care about the health and well being of those around him.

He is immediately greeted by Madam M, who is wearing a facemask because she gives a fuck, from the 2020 FFVII remake. However, instead of running a hand massage parlor, she runs a regular spa because this is MY fanfic and I make the rules.

“I’d like the Deluxe Package,” Sephiroth states. He has no idea what that pertains, but it sounds fancy and he’s nothing if not extra when it suits him.

Madam M eyes him disinterestedly; he’s not the first naked pregnant man to enter her place of work, and he sure as hell won’t be the last. “You sure you can handle it?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth insists.

“Fine,” she slaps her wooden fan against her wrist. “Wait here.”

Seymour Guado was currently at the spa getting a manicure. His disgusting fingers looked like they were just pulled from the ground and a poor, underpaid cosmetology major was forced to look at them as she painted his nails. They were gross. She wanted to cry. Instead, she allowed herself periodic breaks where she looked away and averted her gaze to something less offending.

“Something less offending” happened to be Sephiroth’s penis in the waiting room.

Sephiroth might have been grown in a lab, but that didn’t mean he was circumsized. Professor Hojo was a lot of things, but he wasn’t Jewish. He didn’t believe in cutting off pieces of his prized specimen’s pee-pee.

Neither did Seymour Guado’s parents.

Seymour and Sephiroth looked at each other. Both eyed the other’s baby bulge appraisingly; where Seymour’s was low-hanging and softer with a deep, navel, Sephiroth’s was super round and nearly twice the size.

Their guts are irrelevant.

What’s important here is that they both had erect penises tingling _beneath_ their guts.

And both of them were wrapped in lovely foreskin like baby burritos (or, in Sephy’s case, a very large burrito XD)

With inhuman speed, Sephiroth lunged across the room and shoved his penis into Seymour’s foreskin. Seyweed’s back arched, putting his belly at the perfect angle to accept Sephiroth’s erect tummy tit into his hollow cavern.

They were like puzzle pieces, fitting together perfectly. Sulferot gyrated to the beat of Freddy Mercury’s ‘Living on my Own’ (despite Katy Parry’s ‘Firework’ playing over the speakers) and Seymour just sat there and took it because he was afraid to move and fuck up his nails.

One of the triplets inside of Sephiroth ejaculated prematurely, and that increased the pressure in the womb, causing dank mako to shoot out of the none-winged-angel’s stomach nub into Seymour’s anxiously waiting belly button.

The mako causes Seymour to mutate into his Flux Final Boss Form.

The woman doing his nails has a heart attack and cries.

Nobody hears her over the sound of Seymour encouraging Sephiroth to kill himself.

At the edge of Treno, there is a spa. It’s a magical sort of place that does what it does and it does it well. This particular spa also exists on the divide between worlds, so it simultaneously exists in every universe at once.

Out of all the ridiculous amount of spas he’s been to, this one is Kuja’s favorite. They’re the only ones willing to wax his balls and dye his hair at the same time. That kind of efficiency is something he appreciates, so he has a regular monthly appointment scheduled every third Tuesday from 9 am to 9 pm.

Unfortunately, he’s going to be a little late this month….


End file.
